Convoluted
by EccentricSpock
Summary: Jim. Confusing, lots of words, choppy. Unorganized thoughts--but he knows T'Hy'La. Spork/Spirk/Kock. James Kirk/Spock


Forgive me. I wanted to write something very, very, very raunchy for no particular reason…my first real PwP. .////.

It felt like drowning, when Spock loved him. It was hard, and untamable. It was a rush, it was enveloping, it was all around him, sweeping him away from reality into their own world that was born of hot sand, cool water and just Spock and just Jim. It silent, except for their two voices. It was cold, except for Spock's hands on him, everywhere, all at once. It was bleak, except for molten brown eyes boring into his own from above. It was always rough, it was always fast, it was always good and oh, God it was always Spock.

Jim knew as soon as he stepped into Spock's chambers that it was going to be one of those nights. Those nights he fell asleep drenched in sweat, wrapped in spent sheets and strong arms. He knew it would be a morning where he would limp into the bridge, and a day where he would get up for almost nothing to silence his angry hips. He knew it would be one of those nights, because of one simple sentence.

"I extend an offer for you to accompany me in my chamber for this evening, Jim."

Within the hour, he was pressed down into the sheets, moving against a warm body that was moving against him too. It was a mess of hands, someone's hand on someone's side, someone's shirt being thrown off to the side. He heard Spock mumbled 'lights' and the room went dark, and Jim was left to explore intense planes of flesh and muscle blindly with his fingers. He head boots hitting the cold floor, he felt lips trail down his chest, a tongue over his nipple—he groaned--down his stomach, across his hips. Fingers traced circles down his legs as they weaved further from where he so wanted them to be, forced instead to wait for his boots to also be removed with methodical expertise. When the task was done, those fingers traced their way back up, close and achingly far through the fabric of his jeans. A soft whisper of a name, the fingers stopped. He almost panicked, feeling nothing in the dark, before blunt nails bit into his ribs and he arched; teeth undid his slacks in comical irony—Spock would never admit to that talent. He curled his own fingers into soft hair as those nails dragged stinging steams down to the hem of his pants and pulled them down, down, off—followed quickly by his shorts. Then another pause, and Jim withed to find purchase. He kneaded the soft hair like a cat, panting steamed puffs of air into the night. Then it was there, a heat stronger than Vulcan sand, a wet sweeter than candied caramel, a pressure tighter than falling stones—and it was glorious. He threw his head back into the pillows, whispering soft praises into the heavy air, letting them mingle with his exhales and noises as they would. They hung there like droplets on glass, filling the room with more than just recycled air and the smell of male musk.

It was there, he could feel it. Like something was squeezing the base of his spine, tighter and tighter. The edge of reality came closer and close, white hot nothing beyond spreading wide and welcome. And he was there, he was there—so close. He reached for it, felt the scream build in his throat.

It never came. The scream died in a frustrated exclamation of such utter disappointment he was sure it emanated in pulsating waves—the heat, the wet, the pressure was gone. So close, he'd been—paradise was there. He cursed. Aloud, internal, he cursed with venom.

Being filled in one motion was far more shocking than many assumed. It was an instant of suddenly feeling more complete than any one person should be allowed to feel. Feel like there was more of you than there could be, that this amount of pure completion is improbably, unnecessary, should be rejected. Because incompletion was what made humans, human. Their imperfections made them what they were, made them how they were born to be. Being so complete, so full, expanded and made more than you were born to be should feel foreign, unnatural. And it did, at first.

Then, he would begin to move. And the world would turn itself upside down, it would expand and contract at the same time, and would send you to a place you would never want to leave.

And that's where this took him, this moment between himself and this man, the first movement of their union—this it was T'Hy'La was. It was being more than what you were born to be, it was becoming so complete, so full to the brim that you overflowed everywhere into this person you were this—this was T'Hy'La. This is what made that bond of never touching, and yet always touching; of being away, but never being to far. It was a reminder of yes Jim, I love you, only you, and forever will only love you. I am yours, and you are mine, and we are each others and always will be.

The intense, heavy hands on his hips, gripping to bruise, grounded him there. His legs wrapped around Spock's hips kept Spock with him, would not let him leave until their joining was complete. His hands in Spock's hair kept this lips together, so their tongues could dance around each other in the dance that began before time was recorded, and their body's were not 'theirs' but 'ours' and they were one person, one soul, on entity.

And it was glorious.

Jim watched him sleep, sometimes, when his mind was to abuzz with no thoughts at all to sleep. A stage in his circadian cycle where he'd be to tired to move, but to awake to fall asleep. It never lasted long, not after exertions like that, but it lasted long enough for him to see the human in the Vulcan's face. The human who's expressive eyes let people know that yes, I do feel, behind his alien's mask. The human in their who's heart said 'I love you' in a way so convoluted by Vulcan principles that it came out 'You're presence is acceptable, Captain'. And he would smile, a human smile. And he would whisper 'I love you too.' And then he would sleep, to wake in the morning feeling sticky, stiff, and cold, because Spock was always early to his shifts and Jim was always late, and yet they always found moments to wind up entangled in each other, before either of them had to leave.

Jim would open his eyes and sit up, and would immediately feel a thrum of 'Good morning, T'hy'la,' and smile.

Then go get his coffee.


End file.
